Affliction
by jessng
Summary: The one we live for is the one we want to kiss us goodbye.
**_Warning_** : Does not follow plot line whatsoever. Also, Roger has one eye because of eye cancer.

 ** _Also warning_** : Blood. Cuts. Suicide. Weird spiritual stuff.

 _Thou hadst been warned._

* * *

 ** _"What if I fall, and hurt myself, would you know how to fix me?"_** _\- Hazy, Rosi Golan._

* * *

The palm leaves rustled in the wind, the waves were rushing to the shore like they usually did, and besides that and the sound of his heart thumping loudly in his chest, Ralph could not hear anything else. His pupils enlarged as he stared into the other's icy blue eyes, and heat rushed to his cheeks. Jack's right hand was on that cheek, his thumb caressing the slightly tanned skin. The red curls that had grown too long fell limply down on his forehead, hiding the freckles there. His intense gaze was focused on the blond being trapped by his bony left arm and the coconut tree he was pushed against. The ginger lowered his head in the other's astonishment, lingering for a few seconds, then pressed his lips against the soft, pink ones of the other boy. Ralph opened his eyes even wider, but the euphoria he was feeling slowly drove his eyelids to closing. He tilted his head a little, allowing the tip of Jack's nose to touch his cheek. The great palm leaves still rustled in the wind, and the frequent cries of sea gulls and cicadas was still not enough to regulate the rhythm of the boys' heart.

A few yards away from the scene, underneath the shadow of a great palm tree, another figure stood, shaking himself in bitter envy, his fist clenching, the overgrown fingernails dug into the flesh on his palm. His cheeks were red, too, but not with embarrassment or the weird tingling feeling in his stomach. His black eye was watery, but he refused to let the warm drops of liquid roll down his hot cheeks. He silently watched the other two kissing without the acknowledgement of his appearance. His raven hair was sticking to his face with sweat, but he did not care. In his head was an imaginary Venn diagram, and he mentally compared himself to the blond boy in the redhead's arms. The more he compared, the more he realized how the ginger was correct in his decision of not choosing him. There was no way he could compete with the golden boy. He sat on the ground, his eyes still refusing to let the salty liquid out. He gritted his teeth, wrapped his arms around his legs, and buried his head in that hole of darkness. His insides curled up. His bloody right hand tightly gripped to the knife.

It was foolish of him to think that the affection for the head hunter would end in a day or two.

* * *

At some points in his life on the island, Roger had considered eliminating Ralph. The golden boy was too perfect, and too much of an unbeatable rival, but he would always rethink it, and realize it would make his chief sad. In his mind, the fair boy was not chief. That title belonged to one person only, and it was Jack. He had been feeling something weird for that redhead since he first saw him. There was a spell in those icy light blue eyes, and those red strands, those brown freckles, that tall and slim frame, that eerie stare, and just everything about his chief; a spell so powerful it gave Roger fluttering butterflies in his stomach every time he saw Jack. If someone said he was spellbound by the chapter chorister, he just might as well agreed right away.

His chief also had an affection for someone. That someone was not him, but the golden boy named Ralph. It was quite understandable. The blondie, Ralph, was beautiful, charismatic even. He had ocean blue eyes, the navy blue kind, that were so big and bright they looked like they could capture the whole world. He also had that golden body, and that innocent look on his face, and the blonde locks that looked so soft everyone wanted to touch them. He always looked like he was daydreaming despite his best efforts of trying to look serious. He was the closest to _perfection_ on the island.

Sometimes, Roger would find himself silently comparing him to the elected chief.

He could _never_ be one tenth of Ralph.

He had black hair, messy and never combed properly, that had grown so long on the island they covered his nape and a part of his face where his eyes were. His eyes were black, pure black, and one of them were missing, replaced with a white bandage as an eyepatch. His face was gloomy, he never laughed, or giggled, or even smiled. People would usually find being around him uncomfortable, but he was okay with that, since he felt that way being around himself too. His voice was a little accented due to his childhood spent in Russia, his actual home country. To his mother, he was an one-eyed raven who brought misfortune to the family. To his father, he was no more than a mistake. To the entire of his family, he should never have existed.

People hated being around him. That had been an unchanged law with the only exception being the chapter chorister and head boy who could sing C sharp.

They were not friends, Roger thought so, but rather a master and his follower. That was why he could not afford to make Jack sad, and why he could never kill the golden boy.

But if he killed himself, no one would care.

 _Now was it not tragic?_

* * *

Jack would always leave his hunting knife lying everywhere in the jungle, and Roger would always go after him to collect it, then return it to the owner. Today was no exception. It was raining the previous night, so the air smelled earthy, and inhaling that scent only would give people pleasant feelings. Roger's eyes caught his own reflection in a puddle right next to the knife, a strangely pale face, one eye with a dark circle underneath it, thin lips, and black hair hiding all that. He jammed the knife into the puddle, and his image was shattered just like that.

Realizing what he had done, Roger pulled the knife out of the soil and went to the stream to wash its blade. The knife was soaked into the water in an empty coconut shell, and Roger used his right hand to rinse off the dirt. The blade ran through his palm, just below the fingers, and, soon enough, the water was dyed red. He lifted his hand up to examine it, then continued his work until he had washed Jack's knife completely. He stood up, disposed of the water, and walked to the beach.

Hearing the voices of the chief and golden boy, he stopped and hid behind a large palm tree.

He was not much of an eavesdropper, but he listened to their whole conversation, his stomach curling up more and more, and he watched them, lips against lips, feeling that he could collapse anytime. Roger reconsidered getting rid of the golden boy.

Or himself.

But he could not make Jack sad, could he?

He could not even bear to see his chief frowning.

Killing Ralph was not much of an option now, was it?

He found himself making small cuts on his arms, slowly moving up to his wrists. The red liquid trickled down, drops of it was on the ground, soaking into the soil. His face showed nothing, no pain, no tears, and most definitely no joy. The blade was on his right wrist, near his palm, where his first wound was. He hesitated, the shiny blade was on his skin, but no pressure was put on it. He stared at his wrist and blood-soaked arm.

If he cut there, would he die?

Roger had heard people talking about how cutting at the wrist would cause sharp pains, make a large amount of blood flow out, and eventually lead to death. He had never tried cutting himself, but he had just done it. The physical pain was not enough to get his mind off the chief, the golden boy, and how their lips were glued to each other. He wanted to cut at his wrist, but what good would that do? If he cut, and he did not die, what would he do then?

If he cut, and he died, who would care?

To everyone, he had been an one-eyed freak, a social outcast, a person no one cared about, and that "no one" included his parents. So if he died, what would he die for?

 _Nothing._

His mind instantly replied to the question. Roger was reluctant, then put the knife down next to his thigh. He realized how much of a mess he had made, and attempted to stand up and walk away, but his mind went fuzzy, and his head was dizzy. He gripped onto the palm tree, trying to stand up straight. It was useless. His grips had no strength. He peeked over to see if Jack and Ralph had left. The images he perceived were blurry, but he could make out that there were no one there anymore. He let out a sigh of relief, and let go of his hands. His body collapsed on the ground, his eyelids slowly shut.

No one would care anyway.

* * *

 _What if he died?_

The question had been lingering around Roger's mind for ages. It was unsettling, but the certain answer was no one would care. He was a nobody. He was worthless. He only brought bad luck. He gave people uncomfortable feelings. He was an one-eyed freak. He was insignificant. He was a mistake. He should never have existed. Everyone hated him. He hated himself. What did he even live for?

He guessed the answer was to see the red curls, the icy eyes, the freckles, the tall and bony body, the thin lips that would always curve into an arrogant smile, to hear the voice that sounded a little too cocky for that age, the only one who could reach C sharp during Choir, to feel the overwhelming sense of dominance. He lived because Jack lived. He would die if his chief died, but if he was the one to die first, his chief would not be bothered by any means. It was single-sided, but it was his limit. An afflicting affection, one would say.

Roger guessed that he lived for Jack.

But Jack lived for Ralph. And Ralph lived for whoever it was he cherished the most. It was like the food chain Roger learnt in Science. One person living because another lived. And apparently, he was at the bottom of that chain.

It was sad living like that.

But he was accustomed to sadness anyway.

* * *

Roger woke up with a throbbing headache and his only eye in pain. He pushed himself up with his two palms. The blood from the cuts on his arms was starting to clot. The dark red, almost brown lines on his arm still felt painful, but at least they got better. He walked, his legs shaky, his vision blurry, and his arms limp. He looked around, and saw that it was still where he passed out earlier, not a person in sight.

 _You see, Roger, no one gives a damn about you._ He reassured himself of that fact. _Not even Jack._

Was it not painful?

 _If he stopped existing, no one would even notice his absence, would they?_

That was when he suddenly saw two eyes staring at him from the dark. Two forest green eyes, bright, sparkling, staring at him.

Roger rubbed his eye with his right hand, then cursed his vision. It could not be him, not that boy, the sweet, innocent one who had convinced him into not crushing a dragonfly he found. It could not be Simon. The kid was dead in a car accident. Everyone saw him dead. His bloody body could not appear more vivid in Roger's mind. It was a fact. The kid was dead.

Yet he was looking straight at him. A blurry image with the eyes as the only clear part. Was he a ghost?

No.

Probably.

He was wearing the choir outfit, the black cloaks with a big cross on the chest and black caps with a silver badge. His dark brown hair was cut neatly, and his mouth was quirking up into a small smile. He stared at Roger, and his mouth was in motion.

 _We all need someone to kiss us goodbye, don't we?_

Roger ignored the boy, and kept on walking. The more he walked, the clearer the figure was, and the more the pain he felt in his eyes increased. He was sure the other boy was just an illusion, but he could not ignore his question. He stopped, then started talking to the ghost he imagined.

"What do you mean?" He asked, even though he had known the answer to the question.

 _We all live for someone, and we all need someone to kiss us goodbye. I guess we don't have the choice on who we feel affection for, and that's just how weird this cycle of affection is. Didn't you also figure that out? The one we live for is the one we want to mourn us if we ever stop breathing. It is that one who we want to miss us if we're gone. The one we live for is the one we want to kiss us goodbye._

The imaginary boy's voice started to crack in his ears.

Roger looked down, his left hand gripped tight to the knife. His eye was getting watery the more he thought about the one he lived for. He was choking on his own words, and did not know what else to say.

"The one I live for won't kiss me goodbye," when he could finally speak, Roger also found his voice cracking, "won't care enough to kiss me goodbye. He wants someone else to kiss him goodbye, and he wants to kiss that one goodbye." He clenched his right fist, his knuckles turned white from the pressure.

 _What are you going to do?_

"Kill myself." Roger held his eye with his right hand, leaving some gap between the fingers, enough to make out the figure of the boy, "I guess."

 _Isn't there any other way?_

"Even if I die, no one will care. If I live, I'm still a mistake, worthless, freak, misfortune, nobody, insignificant. Between those two, there's not much of a choice now, is there?" He said bitterly, then tried to make his lips curve up, but failed, miserably. "No one wants to kiss me goodbye."

The other boy was silent.

 _I want to kiss you goodbye_. He finally spoke.

"You're just an illusion my eye created to comfort myself." Roger continued walking, but not to the beach.

 _No, I'm not._

"Yes, you are."

 _No_.

"Yes."

 _No_.

"Then what are you then? A spirit?"

 _I guess.._

"Oh, great, a spirit is talking to me. Now people will think I'm batty because I talk to myself."

 _But you're talking to me._

"But can anyone hear you?"

 _I guess no._

"Great. Just great," said Roger in sarcasm. He was silent for a moment, then broke out in laughter, and his voice cracked even more. "Isn't freak enough?" His voice was like a breaking piece of glass. "Isn't unnecessary, worthless, misfortune, sinister enough? Isn't all that enough?" His voice shattered. "Now I have to be batty?" The tiny fragments of his words were scattered everywhere.

The other boy bowed his head. He twisted his fingers, and his eyes seemed to sparkle even more when they were watery.

 _Can I at least follow?_

Roger gave a small nod, then kept on walking, shakily, almost falling a couple of times. He reached the end of the island, where there was an area, isolated from all the rest. The only way to get there was a bridge made of stones, about a few feet in width. Roger walked on the bridge, trying not to collapse while still holding his hurting eye. Behind the piling stones was a cave-like structure. Roger settled down, and the spirit did the same.

For a moment, he just stared at the ground, then at the knife in his left hand. He seemed reluctant. His eye still in agonizing pain. Finally, he opened his mouth, and from his throat came a scream. He screamed himself hoarse. The broken pieces of his voice shattered into even smaller ones, cutting into his flesh, sticking to his skin. Roger screamed until he finally let out a choke, and a warm, salty liquid flowed down from his only eye. His face was half lighted by the moon. His cheeks were red. He buried his face in his hands, his tears running through the gap between his fingers.

The spirit watched, his eyes were also filled with water.

"Stupid Jack." Roger finally whispered with his broken voice, "never knows how much I feel for him. All he cares about is the blondie." He bit his lower lip.

 _But I know._ The spirit still looked at him, his mouth forming a frown.

"Never knows he's who I live for."

 _But I know._ The spirit said again.

"Never knows I stare at him every time."

 _But I know._

"Never knows I love his voice."

 _But I know_. The spirit's voice was starting to break again.

"Never knows I like him."

 _But.. I know._

"Never knows I want him to kiss me goodbye."

 _But.._

Roger tried to focus his eye again, and he saw the spirit's teary eyes.

"Yeah, you know." He grabbed the knife in front of him.

Roger once again tried to lift the corners of his mouth up, and, once again, failed.

"Simon?" He looked at the spirit, his vision starting to get more blurry.

 _Huh?_

"Just right now. Can I feel something for you?" He inhaled. "Can I live for you? Can I just stare at you in silence until my cheeks blush? Can I listen to your voice when it reaches C sharp?" He took another breath. "Can I like you?"

The figure nodded, tears rolling down his cheek rapidly like a waterfall.

"Dumbass," Roger whispered under his breath, "I'm supposed to be the one crying."

 _I don't care._

"Can you sing? That song that required us to reach C sharp?"

The spirit said nothing, and started singing.

"You know, your singing is terrible," Roger felt the drops of water about to roll down from his eyes again. He held the knife up with both hands, the blade pointing to the left side of his chest. His eyelids began to shut, and he inhaled for the last time before giving his last attempt of a smile.

The blade had found its sheath. The warm crimson liquid flowed out of that sheath.

In the light of the moon, for the first time, Roger's lips had curved up.

 _Simon, one last request._

 _Huh?_

 _Can you kiss me goodbye?_

The spirit said nothing.

In the last few seconds of consciousness, the boy with black hair and one eye felt the ginger touch of someone's fingers, and a kiss was laid gently on his forehead.

 _Hey, chief, you realize it too, right?_

 _The one we live for is the one we want to kiss us goodbye._

 _What we feel for others really is painful._


End file.
